


Good Things Come in Threes

by sanityeradicated



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Mirandy Pile of Stuff 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:21:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanityeradicated/pseuds/sanityeradicated
Summary: Andy attempts to process her emotions the only way she knows how.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41
Collections: Mirandy Pile of Stuff 2020 Wednesday Prompts





	Good Things Come in Threes

Right after Paris, Andy decided to move on from Runway by revisiting her abandoned interests: reading and writing. It wasn’t a conscious undertaking as she has always been fascinated with words. From fictional prose to poetry, and the occasional non-fiction, she took comfort in literature. If not for daydreaming, then as a constant source of revelation, and most especially, as a light at the end of the tunnel when weighed down with a heavy heart. 

Andy needed to spend her free time wisely. It wasn’t in abundance, but it was significantly more than what she had in Runway. Since her growing career was driven by strategizing global marketing campaigns for non-profit organizations, she focused all her creative energy in writing narratives for top-notch client presentations. A job that constantly requires a well-rounded grasp on general knowledge and current events. A balance of sound judgment, trending hashtags, and apt messaging for the target markets. Digital is the future. Content is king. 

This Sunday had been meant for a light read. She was on her way to read about various psychological theories, a new acquisition from her favorite local bookstore, Word Up. It had been a challenge to pick five titles from the growing pile, but eventually opted for three poetry collections, one novel, and a Psychology textbook. 

Sitting over the couch with a pencil in hand, Andy began to diligently underline passages that fascinated her, and wrote additional notes around the edges of the page. She was never one to leave books in their mint condition, always preferring to add her insights and thoughts in the mix. She was about to finish a chapter on Memory Recall when a shrill tone from the bedroom demanded her attention.

“Hey, Dougie,” Andy greeted.

“What’s keeping you busy on a Sunday morning, Andy?” A friendly interrogation from Doug. “Normally you’d answer on the first ring. Runway habits circa 2006. Have you been on a date last night that kept you up? Was she hot? Is there going to be a second date?”

“Hold up, Dougie,” Andy chirped, laughing at the sudden barrage of questions thrown her way. “I wasn’t on a date last night. And I’m just reading about theories relating to Memory Recall with a good cup of tea. Didn’t notice I left my phone in the bedroom.”

“Memory recall?” Doug quipped. “Tell me all about it, Andy.” 

With a tone that sounded wiser beyond her years, Andy explained, “Whenever our brain records a memory, it’s usually affected by the emotions that go with the experience, right? Here’s the cooler part: once we try to retrieve that certain memory in another given point in time, our mood in that moment can also affect our ability to access the encoded data. How relatable and deeply human is that.”

“Hmmm. That sounds deep, Andy bear,” Doug mused. “You’ve done some thinking. What kind of mood might you be in right now?

“Oh, I don’t know--maybe nostalgic for the good old days?” Andy murmured, with an attempt to appear nonchalant.

”Which memory are you revisiting from the good old days then?” Doug pressed on.

Silence.

“Andy?” 

Deep breath. 

“How are you feeling right now? And what are you thinking about?”

More silence. And after a couple of minutes:

“Still?” 

“Everything reminds me of her, Doug.” Andy whispered. “Everything.”

“Oh, Andy bear.” Doug comforted. “If you want to talk about it right now, I can head there with your favorite Chinese.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready to, Doug. I just--” The sentence hung in the air, unfinished.

“You have to do something about that Andy,” Doug pleaded. “Either you actively try to move on, or take a shot to get what you want. You don’t have to decide today. But it has to be done soon. It’s been years.” 

“I know,” She acquiesced. “Don’t worry about me, Doug. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright then.” Deciding for a change in topic, “Now, let me tell you about this hot mess of a man that I met from the NYPD.”

“Oooh, NYPD,” Andy giggled. “You always go for the colorful ones, don’t you, Dougie?”

_______________________________________________________________________

The rest of the work week had been a quiet, monotonous affair. The morning routine: Andy woke up, showered, got dressed, and went through The New York Times on her mobile phone while keeping her ground near the tail-end of the subway that wasn’t only packed like sardines, but in one particular instance, smelled like one too. There were no scheduled client meetings, so the opportunity of dressing down had been fully maximized and appreciated. 

But Saturday morning began with a world of difference. 

Alternating between eating her usual bagel cream cheese for breakfast, and staring into space, Andy reflected on Doug’s words over the phone. Then she summoned the courage she never thought she had, opened her email, composed a new message, and quite uncharacteristic of her writing persona, clicked send without a round of editing.

**To: miranda.priestly@MP.com**  
**Subject: Please don’t delete this.**

**Miranda,**

I’ve spent the past three years musing on the impossible, yet this impossibility seems to be too enchanting to let go of. I’m hinged at the very thought of you.

If you allow me to go on, there’s a chance for this growing attachment to finally be exorcised. I’ve been told that it isn’t the wisest of choices to live on imagination. But I distinctly remember you telling me that you lived on hope. I have followed and still continue to follow your example. So I guess another prominent possibility might be in the works: for this form of communication to exacerbate my affections.

If you want me to stop, just say the word. But I always thought that good things come in threes, so three messages is what I hope for you to receive.

For now, I’ll leave you a poem that has stopped me on my tracks today:

> Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake  
>  and dress them in warm clothes again.  
>  How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running  
>  until they forget that they are horses.  
>  It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,  
>  it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,  
>  how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days  
>  were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple  
>  to slice into pieces.  
>  Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means  
>  we’re inconsolable.  
>  Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
>  These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
>  Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
> 
> **Richard Siken, Shescheherazade**

It goes without saying that I’m fond of you, Miranda. But tell me, why does this feel so otherworldly and boundless? 

**Yours,**  
**Andy**

________________________________________________________________________

Emboldened by Miranda’s lack of response, Andy resolved to finish her--for the lack of a better word--cleansing process. But if asked how she wanted this whole exercise to conclude, she’d have a different kind of cleansing in mind. A full acceptance of the link between them, to give room and coalesce into a steady, unfaltering kind of union. You wouldn’t know where one begins and the other ends. After all, haven’t they established how good they were for one another? 

________________________________________________________________________

The following Saturday began with a literal bang. With the power down, Andy chose to spend her day at the library with the usual stash in her backpack: laptop, notebook, pens, book of the day: a poetry collection of Bob Hicok, power strip, and her trusty water bottle.

First agenda: compose an email.

**To: miranda.priestly@MP.com**  
**Subject: In each place and forever.**

**Miranda,**

I’ve always been a curious creature, easily fascinated with the inner workings of the world. But it appears that the world has nothing on you. Whatever I do, the mind--in ways I can’t even explain--finds its way to connect everything to you. Case in point, I was peeling an orange into a fluorescent coil, and I had to pause and wonder whether you had an orange phase sometime in your life. 

Well, have you? 

Last week, I was reading about sensation and perception from a chapter about Biopsychology. Something about synaptic connections, neurotransmissions, electromagnetic energy and theories of color vision, and it made me realize how utterly hungry I am to know more about the universe.

I have this constant need to process everything around me: colors, taste, texture, composition, details, and temperature of whatever it is that I encounter. Poems, songs, photographs, things of warmth, and you. There’s always you.

In my frequent daydreaming, I’ve asked numerous questions that were left unanswered. Were you an inquisitive child? Did you spend wild nights in college? Have you chain-smoked cigarettes to the point of seeing past the haze of the future? Were you the type to choose _dare_ over _truth_? Have you ever met someone who made you question everything? 

How do you want to be loved, Miranda?

When I met you, my world shifted. And when I knew you, my life unraveled. What was once nebulous finally made sense. I never had the words back then, but I’m borrowing the last two stanzas from a new favorite poet:

> Here, when I say I never want to be without you,  
>  somewhere else I am saying  
>  I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you  
>  in each of the places we meet,
> 
> in all of the lives we are, it’s with hands that are dying  
>  and resurrected.  
>  When I don’t touch you it’s a mistake in any life,  
>  in each place and forever.
> 
> **Bob Hicok, Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem**

Miranda, this growing affection is bound to last across universes, and beyond lifetimes. Is that alright with you?

**Yours,**  
**Andy**

________________________________________________________________________

Ever since Andy decided to reach out to Miranda, she felt lighter than she ever had in years. The more she admitted her feelings to herself, the more at peace she became. It felt as natural as breathing. Or her heart beating. Systole, diastole.

Think of this: the tangling of the limbs, sprawling across the sheets. Chest to bareback. Systole, diastole. Systole, diastole. Hearts beating in counterpart, then, in unison.

________________________________________________________________________

Following a hectic work week, Andy decided that her weekend was meant to be for leisure. After lounging in her bedroom for hours, she checked her email for her favorite online subscription from _poets.org_. What a revelation. Time to write her thoughts.

**To: miranda.priestly@MP.com**  
**Subject: Towards you.**

**Miranda,**

This has been such a manic week for me. I hope yours was more forgiving.

I’m stalling.

I promised you three letters, and here we are. I have so many questions in my head, and countless things that I’d like to say, that I couldn’t condense them into a final message. But I came across a poem today, and I knew that it was meant for me to share with you. 

> Tonight I lingered over your name,  
>  the delicate assembly of vowels  
>  a voice inside my head.  
>  You were sleeping when I arrived.  
>  I stood by your bed  
>  and watched the sheets rise gently.  
>  I knew what slant of light  
>  would make you turn over.  
>  It was then I felt  
>  the highways slide out of my hands.  
>  I remembered the old men  
>  in the west side cafe,  
>  dealing dominoes like magical charms.  
>  It was then I knew,  
>  like a woman looking backward,  
>  I could not leave you,  
>  or find anyone I loved more.
> 
> **Naomi Shihab Nye, San Antonio**

Miranda, I’ll keep it succinct. I think love is a constant celebratory yes. So I’m saying yes to the wonder that you are, and all that you will ever grow to be. No conditions given, no questions asked, no requirement for promises in return. I love you.

**Yours, only yours,**  
**Andy**

________________________________________________________________________

It was six in the evening when a call from an unregistered number diverted Andy’s attention from _The Hours._ She left her bookmark on page 28 before answering her phone.

“Andy Sachs, how may I help you?”

“Andrea,” Miranda greeted, with the French pronunciation that took Andy's breath away.

“Miranda, hey,” Andy breathed. “It’s great to hear from you.”

“Yes. I was hoping to entice you with dinner tonight. Say, 8PM here at the townhouse?”

“Of course, Miranda,” Andy gushed. “I can’t wait.”

“As am I, darling,” Miranda murmured. “As am I.”

Thank goodness for hope, the radiator in her ribcage that kept her heart warm on days where solitude made her ache all over. The very thing that urged her to love someone whom, at a given point in time, couldn’t be hers to grasp and care for. And now it would seem that there is room for more. Because who else was it going to be, if not Miranda? 

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt in writing fanfiction. I was going through the prompts posted on our Facebook group, and this one just spoke to me. I'm more of an academic writer, so it's been quite a shift. It'd be great to hear your thoughts so I get to improve as well. If you find glaring errors or certain parts that need editing, feel free to let me know!


End file.
